


Live a Little

by destinae



Series: Kill the Messenger [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, this didn't want to fucking post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-04 00:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14008269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinae/pseuds/destinae
Summary: newt's been in the entertainment industry for a minute-- then he meets someone interesting





	1. Preface

There were a lot of equally cool things that Newt had dreamt of doing when he was little. He'd wanted to be a chef for aliens for a while, but according to his mother, "aliens were not real", and even then, there was "no telling whether they'd want to eat microwaved dino nuggets or not". So, that dream had been shelved, in favor of something more practical. While biology hadn't been the  _direct_  next step in his dream process, it had popped up along the way, and he'd ended up sticking to his guns on it. Newt had managed two years of undergraduate study before realizing that he just wasn't cut out for it. He didn't feel like exploring things that were already known. Plus, more importantly, he had picked up a lucrative hobby that was well on its way to being a living.

 

Newt had learned electric guitar to impress someone in high school. His freshman year, Newt had announced proudly to his parents that playing instruments and reading music was proven to raise peoples' IQs, and that he wanted to be in tip-top shape. They had been sold, and within a week, so was a Les Paul 100 at the local guitar center. By his Freshman year of college, Newt had become not only  _competent_ in guitar, but also  _passionate_  about it. That same talent-turned-passion become the gateway for Newt's first ( and only ) university friendships. Before the Fall semester of his first year at college was up, he'd formed a band with a few other STEM majors. By that Summer, they'd booked a regular gig at a bar in town.

 

Everything else had worked in an orderly way, despite the fact that Newt-- nor any of the band's other members-- had intended for much of anything to come of their hobby. Graveyard shift dive bar gigs had turned to a stint as the opening act for touring shows at a local music venue, which had gotten them enough attention to have  _other people_  open for  _them_. The second summer of his college year, Newt and the four other members of their band had agreed to take a break from their studies and focus on the things that mattered, like their ongoing debate between whether  _In The Air Tonight_  by Phil Collins was an adequate song to open the set with. Apparently, according to the frontman of their little group, it was too slow.

 

According to Newt, his pickup on their jam sessions was too slow.

 

That comeback had earned Newt 1 ( one ) day of being shunned. After that was over and done with, they'd taken the chance to focus on what their band was about. That started with figuring out a name. While their working title of " _Four Dudes and Some Drums_ " had earned ample laughs along the way, their marketing major bassist had finally snapped and told them that it was unsellable for a serious group. They'd settled on " _Reckoner_ ", which Newt thought was badass, and everyone else found just tolerable to not complain about. What had happened next was the kind of thing that turned heads. Over the years, they managed to work their way up from a decent local group, to a band with a legitimate reputation and following.

 

At twenty-nine years of age, Newt and his bandmates had honed their craft.  _Reckoner_  was a force to be... dare one say it...  _reckoned_  with, and they were damn near knocking on the door of great opportunity. First, however, they needed to rise to the occasion. Their current post had the five men lined up to perform at a small alternative music festival at some place called _Hammerhead_. Despite its title, the venue itself was fairly dignified. Entirely general admission,  _Hammerhead_  was the kind of place that someone saw everyone in 80's coming of age films, but didn't think they'd ever encounter in real life. The staff took their job seriously, and for good reason.  _Hammerhead_  was owned by some label too big for Newt to be able to recall the name of. People who pulled good enough crowds often found themselves on the business end of a signing.

 

It was, then, perfectly clear to each and every college dropout in  _Reckoner_  that a lot hinged on this. The rehearsal cycle was much more complex than it had to be, but the house crew had insisted that since the band would be in town anyway, the chance for them to explore the space and rehearse in it would be good for the final performance. So, Newt found himself standing at the loading doors for  _Hammerhead_  with the rest of the band, shifting his weight and shoving his hands further into his hoodie pocket. While their prospects were pleasant, the weather wasn't, and he was  **really**  just looking to go inside.

 

Then the door opened, and the gang was greeted by someone who looked like they had forgotten to pretend to be happy to see them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no narrative plans for this fic, but I'm limiting it to ten chapters because otherwise the other one I'm writing will never get done.
> 
> @kaijufucker666 on twitter, gimme that twitter clout


	2. Chapter 2

"This will be your room," Headset Douche 3 said in an out-of-place English accent, motioning at a dressing room.

 

"Wait, I get my own room?" Newt said, doing a terrible job of concealing his giddy joy.

 

Headset Douche 3 looked at him with an unshakable indifference, his lips pressed into a thin and straight line. "Yes," he said, "There's an intercom that the house manager will use to communicate to you with. Don't turn it off. Any questions?"

 

Headset Douche 3, or as he will be referred to for the rest of this chapter, HD3, had given his name to Newt a grand total of four times since they'd entered the building. Once, when he'd corralled the band into the small hallway by the loading area, where he'd introduced himself and the two other headset douches that he worked with. He'd then given his name a second time when he'd explained to Newt and their bassist that they didn't have in-house instrument techs, so it would be their responsibility to make sure that their instruments were in working condition before the show. Then he repeated his name a third time when Newt had finally worked up the guts to ask him. The fourth time Newt had heard his name was indirect: HD3 had referred to himself in third person while speaking into the headset that seemed to be sutured to his scalp, which presumably was a means of communication to the other two headset douches.

 

In a lot of ways, HD3 was a cool guy. He had the kind of  _bossy librarian_ aesthetic that some girls ( ~~and guys~~ ) could really sink their teeth into. Not literally.  _Maybe_ literally. Newt had actively avoided anything involving sinking his teeth into this guy, though. HD3 was the kind of person who was good at what they did, and knew it. He did his job well and efficiently, and evidently didn't care if the people he managed enjoyed their time or not. Newt had tried  _really hard_ to squeeze small talk out of him, but every time they were about to deviate from anything pertaining to the gig, HD3 found a way to remind Newt about the importance of some mechanism thats name sounded like it had been made up on the spot. Thus, the duo found themselves standing on either side of the doorway to the dressing room, verbally sparring and generally ruining the atmosphere.

 

Newt nodded. "Yeah, what's it take for you to stop being like that?"

 

HD3 didn't even hesitate. His mouth twitched, his gaze growing even less fond than before ( not that it had, at any point, seemed even remotely fond ). "Excuse me?"

 

"Dude, you're a terrible host." As soon as he spoke, Newt wondered if there was a nicer way to put it. He decided there wasn't mostly to save himself the embarrassment. 

 

They held one another's gaze for a few moments. "My job isn't to host you," he said, "It's to make sure that every irresponsible rockstar that steps into this building doesn't damage it beyond repair." HD3 cleared his throat, pressing a button on the black box on his belt, turning his gaze from Newt's and muttering something about  _dry run_ , which didn't sound even remotely fun, then looking back at Newt. "Any other questions?"

 

Newt considered asking another rhetorical one, just to be contrary, and largely because he knew he'd get an answer. "Yeah, can I hook up my guitar and take your amps on a test run?"

 

A pause. Another button press, and more jargon including the phrase  _god mic_ , which sounded exactly like the kind of thing that Newt desperately needed to get his hands on. "Give us five, and we'll have it ready." HD3 said, giving Newt the kind of once-over that made his blood freeze, and leaving him alone in the dressing room.

 

The jury was unanimous in Newt's head: he absolutely had to get in that guy's pants before _Reckoner_  closed their show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got eight chapters left, gang. We don't have time for a sexuality crisis. Everyone's gay and nothing hurts.


	3. Chapter 3

Three hours and one journey through the collective discographies of Metallica, Queen, Blue Öyster Cult, and Prince, Newt was told he'd have to leave the venue. Apparently the rest of the band had already left, and the crew was literally sitting in the booth on their phones, waiting for Newt to finish a setlist with no agenda. Oddly enough, that was also how he found out what the god mic that HD3 has mentioned was: a single wireless microphone that transmitted to every single speaker in the venue, booming the voice of whoever spoke into it. In this case, it was the douche in question. 

 

"We'll be setting up for tonight's show in ten minutes. We need you to go home."

 

Newt strummed out a disappointed D sharp, frowning theatrically at the booth. "How about I say goodbye with my rendition of  _The Memory Remains_? He asked, already plucking out the first chord.

 

"No," HD3 said, visibly leaning closer to the god mic. There was the sound of some shuffling in the booth, and a sigh. "Yeah, I'll go down and show him out." He said, sighing and leaning back into the microphone. "Pack up and I'll show you the door."

 

Needless to say, before HD3 could make it back down to the stage, Newt was banging out a few bars of  _Memory Remains_. Just as Newt's favorite headset guy as about to reach the stage, someone called his name from the booth. "Hermann!" The voice called, barely audible over Newt's guitar.

 

Immediately, Newt stopped playing. What kind of World War II name was that? Newt almost laughed, adjusting his guitar strap and moving to sit on the edge of the stage. "Hermann!" He called, voice amused as he idly plucked the E string. Hermann's head snapped towards him. He looked surprised. Had he caught on to the fact that Newt didn't know his name? Newt adjusted his guitar, setting it in his lap and smiling as he said, "You ever heard  _Dream On_ by Aerosmith? No, of course you have. Everyone has. It's inescapable."  _like that cutting gaze_ , Newt thought, not breaking eye contact as he began to strum out the first chords of the song. Newt was about to begin singing when the sound cut out. "That was incredibly rude." He said, unplugging his guitar and jumping from the edge of the stage. Newt strode confidently over to Hermann, fighting a smirk as the name passed through his mind again.

 

"It's also incredibly rude to stay an hour later than the rest of your band, and encroach on call time for the evening's show." Hermann said, still passionately radiating  _l'essence d'douche_. "Your band has sound check tomorrow. We'll see you then." He said, disturbingly deadpan. Newt wondered if Hermann felt any emotion besides possible irritation from chafing via headset. 

 

It took Newt about five minutes to pack his guitar up. He left it in a locked chest alongside the rest of  _Reckoner_ 's equipment, and was led by Hermann to the loading dock. They stood at the door in silence for a few moments, staring at one another. Newt wondered if this was the part where he seduced Hermann, teaching him the importance of human vulnerability and helping him become a more emotionally whole human being. Then Hermann opened his mouth. "We'll see you tomorrow." He said, then walked away.

 

"Hey," Newt called after him. He saw Hermann consider ignoring him, and then turn around with a sigh audible even from the other end of the hallway.

 

"Yes, Newt?" He asked, saying Newt's name for the first time in what felt like hours.

 

"Want to get drinks after this?"

 

A long pause. Too long. Newt wondered if he had to repeat himself. Then Hermann spoke. "Tonight's show ends at eleven. It takes an hour to strike, and another forty-five minutes to close house."

 

Hermann's silence after the statement indicated that it was meant to be an answer. Newt nodded. "Cool. So maybe this weekend?" He asked, tossing in a finger gun for good measure.

 

Silence. Hermann turned and walked away. Newt left.

 

Newt would show up an hour early to the next day's call time.


	4. Chapter 4

"You're early." Hermann said, with the kind of disapproving tone that Newt had come to anticipate. In the last twenty-to-thirty hours that they'd known one another, Newt had come to comfortable terms with the fact that Hermann wouldn't know a good time if it tried to serenade him with some of Metallica's best songs-- which was exactly why he'd come up with the day's plan B.

 

"Yeah." Newt replied, smiling and taking off his leather jacket, folding it carefully over an arm. The jacket had been a gift from Newt's mother when he'd gone on their first state tour. She'd insisted that Newt have it, as it would be the first piece of his rockstar wardrobe. It had become an outfit staple ever since, and a sign of good luck. He'd need it if he wanted to see Hermann crack anything even remotely resembling a smile. "I wanted to soak the space's aura in. You know, really speak its language." Newt concluded with a shit-eating grin. 

 

A deadpan pause. "Do what you will. Soundcheck doesn't start until the time we sent you, though."

 

"Alright," Newt walked past Hermann and onto the stage. "Well, I'd like your opinion on something." He replied, walking backwards and nearly tripping over an amp in the process. "Are you doing anything? Can the manual labor wait for a few minutes?"

 

Newt saw Hermann's hand twitch towards his belt, where the headset's battery pack sat. Newt could almost  _hear_ the gears grinding in the man's head as he debated the answer. "We're ahead of schedule. What do you need?"

 

Suddenly feeling very on the spot ( to be fair, he'd expected to be shot down again ), Newt nodded slowly. "Great question. I've been working on this acoustic song. We're considering it for the set. You like music, right?" The question hung heavily in the air. The answer was so painfully obvious that it didn't even warrant a proper answer. Hermann worked at a music venue, of course he had an opinion. Something told Newt that he only liked Chopin, or Bach, or some other neanderthal fuck who banged on keys and made Newt want to go to sleep. "I mean, rock music." He stammered, fumbling through a clarification.

 

"Some of it." Hermann said in a way that very heavily implied that  _Reckoner_ did  **not** fall into that category. 

 

"Alright." Newt jerked his head towards his dressing room. "Come on, let me play you something. Live a little."

 

The duo walked towards the dressing room. They passed by the chests containing the band's instruments, from which Newt withdrew his acoustic guitar. It was a run of the mill thing, plastered with stickers from bigger and badder bands, with silver sharpie painting the signature of the rockstars Newt had managed to rub elbows with long enough to grab a signature. The strap had been sewn ( also by his mother-- Newt's emotional attachment to her was  _not_ very punk rock ), and hung comfortably around his neck as he walked into the dressing room with Hermann. "Please, take a seat." He said, gesturing at the single stool in the room. Newt watched as Hermann looked at it, then at him, and back at the stool, then realize that Newt hadn't been joking.

 

Newt had no clue what kind of song he was going to play, instead tuning the guitar with painstaking detail, humming each note to himself, and finally stopping and looking at Hermann. "Alright, any requests?" he asked, idly drumming his fingers on the body of the guitar. The hollow tapping sound filled the silence between them.

 

"No."

 

The coy smirk on Newt's face fell almost instantly, and he nodded. "Tough crowd." He joked weakly, strumming an E minor 7 chord for a few moments as he thought. "You're from England, right?" Newt asked, shifting to a G chord.

 

"I was born in Germany." 

 

A quick shift to a D suspended 4. "No way," Newt laughed, "Me too." He swayed a little when he moved into the next chord. A7 suspended 4. "Then what's with the accent, man?"

 

"I didn't stay there very long." Hermann replied. Newt noted that while Hermann's legs were crossed in the kind of sophisticated and snobby gesture that lined up perfectly with his character, the man's heel also tapped rhythmically on the tile. It wasn't perfectly in beat, but who was keeping score? Newt smirked.

 

"What a shame. They lost a great audio technician."

 

"Stage manager."

 

"Right." A shift back to Em7. Newt strummed the progression for a couple more seconds. "That's  _Wonderwall_. I learned it in high school to try and get this g-" a hitch in his throat, "This person I liked." Newt stopped playing suddenly. "I don't think you'd like it, though."

 

"I don't." 

 

"See? I'm practically psychic. Alright, how about this, then?" Newt began to pluck out  _Sunshine of Your Love_. "Cream." He said, "An English rock band. You know 'em?" He asked.

 

"Distantly. Newt, why are you-"

 

"Shhhh-" Newt said, stopping his strumming to hold up a single finger and hush Hermann. "Let me do this."

 

What followed was an abridged, yet adequate, cover of  _Sunshine of Your Love_. Newt was on the final chords when a voice spoke over the intercom in the dressing room demanding Hermann's assistance in the booth  _immediately_. It wasn't until Hermann was walking out of the door that Newt realized that he'd taken that fucking headset off.

 

Score: Newt one, Stick Up Hermann's Ass, zero.

 

It wasn't until after he was packing up the acoustic and meeting the band at the loading dock that Newt realized he'd never gotten Hermann's opinion of the song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to clarify: loving your parents is VERY punk rock. newt's just a nerd.
> 
> i realized i didn't link my tumblr in the first chapter-- you can find me @destinae on tumblr.
> 
> also, the namedrop was completely unplanned. i actually got the title from a song i was listening to when i was typing the first chapter ( liv a little by atomic bitchwax ), but sometimes the cosmos works in mysterious and vexing ways.


	5. Chapter 5

This was their third time running the show's opening. To Newt, it was fairly simple. Some flashing lights, a sick-ass bassline, and a little bit of fog. Apparently, according to Hermann's frustrated voice over the intercom, there was a lot "behind the scenes" and that "cues had to be called" in the "right order". The amount of jargon that seemed to slip past Hermann's lips like they made any logical sense was, frankly, offensive. The entire technical process had reduced itself to Newt sitting on an amp backstage and playing Candy Crush on his phone as the same four seconds of action played over and over again. 

 

He missed Hermann nagging him, even if only for the entertainment value. The headset douche running things backstage ( number two, if memory served Newt well ) at present sat chewing on the tip of a pen, staring at a clipboard and muttering occasionally into the headset. The entire affair was painfully monotonous. Finally, the guy looked up at Newt, flicking his pen towards the stage. "You're on." he said, with absolutely no sense of urgency. Newt stood up and went onstage, idly strumming a G on his guitar and getting about two feet out before Hermann's voice droned over the god mic, 'hold', and Newt already knew what it meant. He stood still. "Alright, Newt. Just sit there while we focus this."

 

A small part of Newt was offended that Hermann was being so impersonal. He sighed and stood still, tapping his foot as a series of lights flickered, and someone on a ladder shouted about the clamp, whatever the hell that was about. "From the top." The voice boomed, and Newt was ushered back offstage.

 

This ballet continued for about three more hours, and when that was done with, he sat on the loading dock with the rest of the band. They were having the kind of jam session that was directly responsible for the creation of the band. It was eclectic and lacked any real direction, but the atmosphere was cordial. One of the headset douches had even joined them, sitting and smoking idly as the band cranked out some reggae-rock ballad whose lyrics thus far revolved exclusively around how hellish their tech had been.

 

At present, they were on a drum break as Newt recycled the same three chords. 

 

"I fucking hate this place," The singer finally said, fiddling with his boot laces and chewing obnoxiously on a piece of gum. "I don't think they've ever heard of hospitality."

 

This elicited a chuckle from the headset douche, who evidently didn't disagree.

 

"Yeah, it's kind of bad." Newt said with a somewhat forced smile. Hadn't they gotten some kind of deeply personal bonding experience with THEIR assigned headset douches? "But I don't think it's the worst."

 

"He's right," the drummer interjected, "Remember that dive bar? The place we started at?" she said, taking a moment to scratch her back with one of her drumsticks. This gave Newt a great chance to kick up the tempo and shift into a key that didn't make him want to die. The entire band let out various sighs at their humble ( and humbling ) roots. "How did we get that gig, again?"

 

"It was Newt, wasn't it?" The bassist chimed in, setting down a bottled water he'd been nursing. "Didn't you fuck the owner?"

 

"No." Yes, but that hadn't happened until  _after_ they'd gotten the gig, and was due more to the fact that the owner looked like the closest Newt would ever get to James Dean, and due less to the fact that they'd gotten the gig.

 

"I don't know, Geiszler." The singer cut in. "I'm remembering you sharing a few sordid glances with that guy."

 

Newt shook his head and began to break into a frantic, Mumford & Sons-esque bars of guitar mayhem while saying, "Even if I did sleep with him, then it's me that got us started. Think that'll be included in the inevitable Rolling Stone article they write about us?"

 

The drummer was about to talk again, but the unmistakable sound of Hermann's voice cut in. "If you all are done, we'll be having some closing notes and you can go home for the night."

 

It was in the following few moments, as he stood up and brushed his pants off, that Newt realized that Hermann had heard their entire conversation. For a few nervous seconds, he stared at Hermann. Where was his typical morally superior glare? Was whatever that was written on the clipboard in his hand really that important? Newt filed in with the rest of the band and sat through a lecture from the crew that would become erased in its entirety from Newt's memory. Something about safety precautions and call times and other shit that would be repeated in an email. The crowd began to disband, and Newt went back to his dressing room. He set down his guitar, going through some missed notifications and almost jumping when someone knocked on his door. Without looking up, he asked, "What's up?"

 

"Newton."

 

The sound of his full name was enough to make Newt's skin crawl. He locked his phone, pocketing it and looking at the person who had spoken to him. Hermann. "What's up, man?"

 

"About your performance today-" He said, but Newt gave him no time to finish his thought.

 

"I know. Stop backflipping off the amps. Noted." 

 

"No-"

 

"And the G was flat, I know. There's something going on with that string-- I might just restring it, honestly. It's driving me crazy."

 

"No, not that." Hermann said, tone nearing infuriation. It was enough to get Newt to actually be quiet. After a few moments of silence, Hermann spoke again. "I think you should keep the acoustic song in your setlist. Play it as an encore."

 

Silence hung between them. "Oh,  _that_ performance." He said. "Thanks."

 

More silence, like some kind of abstract fucking piñata the Newt couldn't swat. Hermann remained standing there in the doorway, looking a little bit lost. 

 

"Can I... is there something else?" Newt asked. 

 

'No, I suppose not." Hermann said, adjusting the mouthpiece on his headset and walking out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the something else is that hermann was waiting for newt to ask him out for drinks because he was free that evening


	6. Chapter 6

Newt stood at his car, fumbling with his keys for a few moments before finding the remote. He hit the unlock button and was about to duck in before he recognized a familiar, stiffly limping silhouette. "Hermann!" he called out, more amused than he was excited to see the other man. Seeing Hermann outside of the dark of Hammerhead was like spotting a goddamn cryptid, as far as Newt was concerned.  "What're you up to, man?" he asked.

 

Hermann looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights. "I'm on my way home." he said, conversational tone carrying across the parking lot. 

 

"To the bus stop?" Newt asked with a laugh, leaning against his car. It took him a second to realize that Hermann was probably  _taking_  the bus to where he _lived_. Right. He cleared his throat and chuckled. "Listen man, where do you live? I could drive you. Public transport's shit."

 

It was then that he realized that by now, Hermann probably  **knew**  it was shit. Newt watched as Hermann stood still, then began to amble over to the car. "That's my guy!" Newt exclaimed, tapping the roof of his sedan in a gesture of victory and waiting for Hermann to arrive at the car, opening the door like a good date driver and the circling back to the driver's side.

 

"I've got the best fucking driving playlist on earth, man." Newt said, opening up his Spotify. He opened up his driving playlist (  _Africa_  by Toto,  _Footloose_  by Kenny Loggins,  _Dream On_  by Aerosmith,  _In the Air Tonight_ by Phil Collins, and  _Uptown Girl_  by Billy Joel-- just long enough to tolerate a regular drive, and just short enough not to go stale ) and plugged it into the aux cord before throwing the car into reverse and backing out of his space. "You can give me directions, right?" Newt asked.

 

"Yes." Hermann responded, barely audible over the atmospheric synthesizer of  _Africa_. 

 

"Awesome, man." Newt said. A few moments of silence, and they arrived at a red light. Newt was about to speak, and his phone rang.

 

The universe had a funny way of intervening. He picked up the call ( from the band's frontman ), and the sound of it played through the car. Newt looked at Hermann, putting a finger over his lips. Silence. "What's up, dude?" He asked.

 

"Oh, I just wanted to ask you if you needed anything for the show tomorrow? I'm at the store stocking up on some snacks."

 

"Dude. Takis." Newt replied, as if the answer was some kind of universally fact that should have been obvious by that point.

 

"Of course." The voice crackled. "Also... we aren't performing at this venue again, right?"

 

The light turned green, and Newt's eyes darted to Hermann's deadpan. "I don't know, dude. I don't mind it."

 

"Are you kidding? It's like I'm in solitary most of the time."

 

"I mean, you haven't even gotten to know your stage manager?"

 

"Who?"

 

"You know," Newt said, turning right when Hermann pointed, "The headset douche that checks in on you while you're waiting in your dressing room."

 

"What the hell are you talking about, man?" 

 

A pause. "You don't... no one does that for you?" Newt asked. Another red light.

 

"No, dude. Are you fucking this venue owner, too?" The voice asked, mostly joking.

 

"No!" Newt laughed. "Listen dude, I've gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow."

 

"Alright, man."

 

The call ended, and Newt pursed his lips, looking at Hermann. "What say you in your defense, Hermann?"

 

He remained stiff, staring directly ahead at the road. "I don't know what you mean."

 

"Well, I doubt you hung out with me for the fun of it, man." Newt replied. "What, someone tell you to keep me on a short leash or something?" He asked, glancing at Hermann, who remained frozen in space.

 

"No."

 

A nod, and Newt pouted his lips. "You know what?" He said, "You don't talk enough. We're getting drinks on me, my man, and I will crack you open." He took a moment, realizing how the statement could be taken. "Not in, not a weird way, you know? Like... figuratively. Find out what makes you tick." He said, taking a sharp turn towards the nearest bar that he knew shamefully well.

 

"You don't need to do that." Hermann said.

 

"Well, I won't if you tell me why I'm getting this special treatment, dude." Newt retorted as he continued his beeline towards the bar.

 

Silence, the two's current best friend, stood between them. Hermann sighed and drummed his fingers on his knee. "I just wanted to get to know you." He muttered, as if he was confessing to a murder at the end of a lengthy interrogation. 

 

It didn't help that Newt laughed immediately at this, having to pull over as he looked at Hermann. "Really, dude?" He asked, smiling, "Why the hell do you think I wanted to take you to get drinks? For the couples discount?" Newt laughed again, resting his head against the wheel. "Listen. Listen, man." Newt finally said, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. "That's fucking hilarious, but... alright. We're definitely going to the bar now."  He put the car back into drive and peeled off.

 

Newt objectively accepted the fact that there was no way this evening  _wouldn't_ become exciting as hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I limited myself to 10 chapters because otherwise this would never be finished but at this rate I might as well turn it into a fucking anthology because I got too dam much 2 say HENNIES!


	7. Chapter 7

Newt stood at his car, fumbling with his keys for a few moments before finding the remote. He hit the unlock button and was about to duck in before he recognized a familiar, stiffly limping silhouette. "Hermann!" he called out, more amused than he was excited to see the other man. Seeing Hermann outside of the dark of  _Hammerhead_ was like spotting a goddamn cryptid, as far as Newt was concerned.  "What're you up to, man?" he asked.

 

Hermann looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights. "I'm on my way home." he said, conversational tone carrying across the parking lot. 

 

"To the bus stop?" Newt asked with a laugh, leaning against his car. It took him a second to realize that Hermann was probably  _taking_ the bus  _to_ where he lived. Right. He cleared his throat and chuckled. "Listen man, where do you live? I could drive you. Public transport's shit."

 

It was then that he realized that by now, Hermann probably  _knew_ it was shit. Newt watched as Hermann stood still, then began to amble over to the car. "That's my guy!" Newt exclaimed, tapping the roof of his sedan in a gesture of victory and waiting for Hermann to arrive at the car, opening the door like a good ~~date~~ driver and the circling back to the driver's side.

 

"I've got the best fucking driving playlist on earth, man." Newt said, opening up his Spotify. He opened up his driving playlist ( _Africa_ by Toto, _Footloose_ by Kenny Loggins, _Dream On_ by Aerosmith, _In the Air Tonight_ by Phil Collins, and _Uptown Girl_ by Billy Joel-- just long enough to tolerate a regular drive, and just short enough not to go stale ) and plugged it into the aux cord before throwing the car into reverse and backing out of his space. "You can give me directions, right?" Newt asked.

 

"Yes." Hermann responded, barely audible over the atmospheric synthesizer of  _Africa_. 

 

"Awesome, man." Newt said. A few moments of silence, and they arrived at a red light. Newt was about to speak, and his phone rang.

 

The universe had a funny way of intervening. He picked up the call ( from the band's frontman ), and the sound of it played through the car. Newt looked at Hermann, putting a finger over his lips. Silence. "What's up, dude?" He asked.

 

"Oh, I just wanted to ask you if you needed anything for the show tomorrow? I'm at the store stocking up on some snacks."

 

"Dude. Takis." Newt replied, as if the answer was some kind of universally fact that should have been obvious by that point.

 

"Of course." The voice crackled. "Also... we aren't performing at this venue again, right?"

 

The light turned green, and Newt's eyes darted to Hermann's deadpan. "I don't know, dude. I don't mind it."

 

"Are you kidding? It's like I'm in solitary most of the time."

 

"I mean, you haven't even gotten to know your stage manager?"

 

"Who?"

 

"You know," Newt said, turning right when Hermann pointed, "The guy that checks in on you while you're waiting in your dressing room."

 

"What the hell are you talking about, man?" 

 

A pause. "You don't... no one does that for you?" Newt asked. Another red light.

 

"No, dude. Are you fucking this venue owner, too?" The voice asked, mostly joking.

 

"No!" Newt laughed. "Listen dude, I've gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow."

 

"Alright, man."

 

The call ended, and Newt pursed his lips, looking at Hermann. "What say you in your defense, Hermann?"

 

He remained stiff, staring directly ahead at the road. "I don't know what you mean."

 

"Well, I doubt you hung out with me for the fun of it, man." Newt replied. "What, someone tell you to keep me on a short leash or something?" He asked, glancing at Hermann, who remained frozen in space.

 

"No."

 

A nod, and Newt pouted his lips. "You know what?" He said, "You don't talk enough. We're getting drinks on me, my man, and I will crack you open." He took a moment, realizing how the statement could be taken. "Not in, not a weird way, you know? Like... figuratively. Find out what makes you tick." He said, taking a sharp turn towards the nearest bar that he knew shamefully well.

 

"You don't need to do that." Hermann said.

 

"Well, I won't if you tell me why I'm getting this special treatment, dude." Newt retorted as he continued his beeline towards the bar.

 

Silence, the two's current best friend, stood between them. Hermann sighed and drummed his fingers on his knee. "I just wanted to get to know you." He muttered, as if he was confessing to a murder at the end of a lengthy interrogation. 


	8. Chapter 8

They arrived at the bar, which was mercifully quiet for the time of night. Newt wondered distantly if a bar was the right venue for two unlikely souls to bond over drinks. He decided that if Hermann wasn't verbally complaining ,it most not have been too bad of an idea. It was quiet ( and dignified ) enough, though, and had the kind of offbeat charm that local places always managed. Newt ordered a beer ( _whatever's on tap, thanks_ ) and Hermann got a rum and coke. Their drinks arrived, and the duo exchanged nervous glances in silence.

 

"So you wanted to get to know me." Newt said, smirking as soon as he restated it. "Why me?"

 

Hermann's fingers tapped on the side of the glass in front of him, and his gaze shifted. "It was arbitrary, honestly. I just saw your tattoos-"

  
Oh yeah. The tattoos. 

 

There had been a lot of benefits to being a small-time rock band. For Newt, it was opportunities for discounted ( and sometimes, **free** ) tattoos from artists wherever he travelled. It was advertising for them, and a good time for him. He was certainly a work in progress, though. Two full sleeves betrayed his in-progress thigh pieces and completely un-inked chest. Some day, he might have one of those bodysuits, like the people on _Ripley's Believe It Or Not_. The tattoos ranged in subject matter, but generally focused on sci-fi themes. Monsters from foreign films and technology from the far future adorned his arms. While their style was polished, they told the story of someone very much caught up in the youthful fascination with the fictional remaining from a half-lived adolescence.

 

Newt nodded, narrowing his eyes slightly as he took another sip of his beer. "Alright, that's fair. Though... alright, shoot straight with me, Hermann. If you don't...  _not_ like me, why'd you shoot me down for drinks last night?"

 

Somehow, Hermann became more stiff as he knocked back another long sip of his drink. "I was busy."

 

Newt wasn't buying it, but he decided not to push it, because he was a generous and benevolent soul. "Fine. Who's your favorite person that's performed at the  _Hammerhead_?" It was a softball question, and one that would certainly say a lot about Hermann as a person. Newt watched as Hermann digested the question, calculating it and letting those infernal fucking gears in his head turn over and over as if waiting would give him a better answer.

 

"We don't have many bands I like come through." Hermann began. "But once, this pop-punk girl group came by... Elektra, I think." He seemed to gaze into space as he reflected on it. "They were very fun. Very respectful, though that might have been because they were foreign. They didn't draw a very big crowd, but they were good people."

 

Everything Hermann said sounded like the voiceover of a Smithsonian Channel special. Newt nodded. He looked at his beer and back up at Hermann. "We got to open for  _Green Day_ once.They stopped by a town a few miles out of where I went to college, and their opening act all got sick the night before the show. The venue manager... _knew_ me." Newt said, "And next thing we knew, we were performing a setlist to a packed venue. It was amazing, man. It was one of those moments where you know that it's what you want to do forever, you know?" He  paused. "It's also how we met our manager."

 

Realizing that the conversation was way too  _about him_ at the moment, Newt paused and listened to what was playing.  _I Predict a Riot_. He nodded his head to the song. "For someone who works at a music venue, you really don't seem to care about music." The remark left Newt's mouth before he could realize how offensive it would sound.

 

"It's not my job to." Hermann replied. "For example, you spend a lot of time at music venues and know nothing about technical production. It's not the job of the lawyer to understand how the architect built the courtroom." He said. His glass was empty. So was Newt's.

 

A second round came within minutes.

 

Within two hours, they'd both had enough-- Newt had stopped at two glasses of beer, knowing that he had a show tomorrow and that he'd have to be driving home anyway. He'd lost track of how much Hermann had drank, but it was enough to get him to release a modicum of his shoulder tension-- that was a win in Newt's book. They'd ended up falling into a fairly natural cycle of conversation. Newt carried most of the weight, prodding Hermann about his background and interests and such, and Hermann humored Newt with a restricted look into his enigmatic life. They fell silent, looking at one another from across the table with the mute fondness of two newfound friends. "Hey man, let's get out of here." Newt said, nodding his head towards the door. "We've both got places to be tomorrow."

 

A familiar hesitation from Hermann. "Alright." He said, then rose to his feet. Newt paid his bill in cash ( with a generous 30% tip-- the extra 10% pointed entirely to the bartender that hadn't lost their shit at Newt when he'd spilled his drink  _twice_ ), and they returned to his car.

 

The drive to Hermann's place was short, but when they arrived, Hermann didn't immediately get out. Newt looked at him, then at the door.

 

"You gonna need a hand there, pal?" Newt asked.

 

"No." Hermann replied, one hand resting on the passenger side door handle. "Newton-- thank you for driving me home." 

 

"Please, just Newt." He said, "Newton makes me sound way smarter than I am."

 

"You were a Biology major, weren't you?"

 

"For two semesters."

 

This elicited a genuine smile from Hermann. Then there was the fond look again. 

 

There are certain things that happen on instinct-- catching oneself when one falls, buckling into a car before turning on the ignition, or offering a ride to someone one doesn't know very well. New instincts are formed from every experience, though, and something new and bold in Newt instinctually leaned in, pressing a kiss to Hermann's cheek. The moment hung suspended in air, with Newt leaned over the glove compartment, one elbow digging into the old leather, the other hand resting on the wheel. He remained a few inches from Hermann's face, waiting for some kind of identifiable response. He should have known by that point in their relationship that Hermann was not easily read. Slowly, Newt sat down properly in his chair, eyes still trained on Hermann's face. Absolutely nothing. How could someone so adeptly personify radio silence?

 

"Goodnight, Newt." Hermann said, not looking at him, leaving the car and returning to his apartment.

 

That certainly threw a wrench in things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u : hey stella how r u gonna wrap this up in 2 chapters
> 
> me , suffering at the hands of my hellmind : ill let u kno when i find out


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter discusses homophobia. if these things trigger you, you can skip to the end notes and there will be a recap.

Newt arrived early again. He let himself into the venue, sneaking through the dimly lit backstage and alighting into his dressing room.

 

_He wasn't hiding._

 

The previous night had been interesting. Newt had wanted to hook up with Hermann largely out of spite. Being able to get into the pants of someone that detested him was always a welcome challenge, but their talk and drive together had made Hermann more than a challenge to overcome. He was a real person, with real interests and real passions. He was left-brained as hell. He thought of everything as a series of bullet points, and attacked every issue in the most rational way possible, but there was some thing admirable in that. His honesty and bluntness that had once infuriated Newt had evolved into a sincerity and straightforwardness that he admired. Obviously, then, that complicated any plans not involving pants.

 

Maybe they could have been friends. 

 

The evening should have played out simply: Newt would have kissed Hermann, and Hermann would have kissed him, and they would have had a _hell_ of a time together in the backseat of Newt's car. Hermann's chastity and distance, however, had left Newt wondering if he'd read Hermann incorrectly. The man had  _seemed_ gay, or at least bisexual. Was it wrong for Newt to had made that kind of judgement on someone he'd only known for a few hours? What sin was there in being wrong for once?

 

Newt was presently sitting on the counter of the dressing room, back resting against the mirror and feet kicked up on the stool as he lazy cycled through chords. 

 

Being as he was, Newt generally avoided silence. Silence meant thinking, which almost always meant overthinking, which invariably meant bad news. Maybe that was why he'd clung so tightly to guitar, even after it hadn't panned out for him. The entire reason for picking it up had been so stupid. Some guy, some fucking _percussionist_ in the school's _band_ , had given Newt more than three collective seconds of eye contact. Newt had thought for some desperate and lonely reason that this meant the guy  _liked him_. In retrospect, the whole affair was embarrassing. Newt had tried to start a band with him. They'd gotten two rehearsals in, Newt had kissed him, and the whole thing had been called off.

 

Maybe, then, it was a good idea for Newt **not** to trust his gaydar. 

 

Encounters with homophobia had grown few and far between for Newt. As he'd grown older and more comfortable with himself and wound up in the field of entertainment, he had worried less about being outcast. Even if someone didn't like him, professionalism mandated they treat him as well as his salary did. Some people would call that progress. Newt called it formality. Being on the road wasn't lonely-- his best friends, his bandmates, were all he needed in life. Of course Newt fucked people on the road, but none of it was ever more than that. Did the transient nature of his career get mirrored in the transient nature of his heart? Maybe.

 

Hermann didn't fall into the formula, and that was why he was so transfixing. Usually, people melted under Newt's cutting gaze and sly smile. He was the kind of person people  _wanted_ to like: geeky, yet rebellious. Was it narcissistic to think that? Newt's fingers hesitated as he strummed the next chord. 

 

It was stupid to lend this much thought to someone that would be out of his life in a matter of days. It was stupid to give this much thought to anything. Newt picked up the tempo of the strumming, jaw clenched and teeth grinding as he tried to distract his mind.

 

Things weren't easy. Things were never easy. Newt began singing under his breath.  _Whistle For the Choir_. 

 

The show was in three hours. The rest of the band was on their way, and Newt was aching to hear them again. He looked at his phone. A text from the singer. _On my way_. The strumming continued, and Newt bobbed his head a little as he muttered the words.

 

The dressing room door opened. 

 

Before it reached a forty-five degree angle, Newt knew who it was. He froze mid-strum, the final note reverberating and fading. 

 

The gaze they shared this time wasn't as fond.

 

"Newt-"

 

"Don't worry about it, dude." He said, setting his guitar down clumsily and jumping down from the counter. "Strictly business."

 

Hermann, for once in his life, looked legitimately confused. 

 

"You know, us." Newt said. "I took it too far last night. I understand."

 

Hermann sighed and closed the distance between them, looking down at Newt ( had he always been so tall ? ). "Do you notice how often you interrupt people?" He asked.

 

"I've been told it's a habit I should break."

 

"Yet you don't."

 

"I don't have the time. Touring's crazy." Newt joked, smirking.

 

For a second, they were back at the bar, knocking back drinks and rubbing shoulders and smiling and locking eyes and drawing one another into their respective worlds. For a moment, they were very real to one another again.

 

Or maybe it was just Newt feeling that.

 

( Probably the latter. )

 

"I was trying to say, Newton, that your guitar was disrupting our lunch." 

 

Silence. Newt laughed. "Really?" He laughed, then shook his head. "You had me worried."

 

"About what?"

 

"Oh, just... you know, last night. I thought you'd want to talk about it." Newt said, then shrugged. "I think I just thought too hard about it."

 

Hermann looked at him with a resounding silence. "What is there to talk about?"

 

"You do... remember what happened, right?"

 

"Yes."

 

What Newt felt at this point was primarily confusion. He nodded. "Yeah, alright, uh... so can I get some kind of feedback on that? Comments, thoughts, concerns?" He asked, bewildered.

 

"On what? The venue, or the kiss?"

 

A chill ran directly down Newt's spine, and he felt suddenly shameful. He'd suddenly lost the ability to formulate an appropriate joke to respond with. He just cleared his throat. 

 

"The bar was a mess. I don't think that there was a single square foot of that place that lined up with food code. As for the kiss..." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "I don't know. It wasn't memorable."

 

The comment bizarrely offended Newt. "Not  _memorable_?" He asked, putting his hands on his hips indignantly. "What do you  **mean**?"

 

It was perfectly clear that Hermann had no plans to answer that question. The held each other's gazes for a few moments. Newt realized Hermann wasn't wearing a headset. 

 

He considered kissing Hermann again, just because he could, just because he wondered what was going on under that ridiculous fucking haircut.

 

They were both too prideful to move, and fate passed them by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know why this chapter got that deep but i'm not sorry about it
> 
>  
> 
> trigger-free recap: newt arrives early to the venue and plays his guitar, reflecting on his sexuality and lifestyle. hermann enters, and they talk briefly. newt tries to get hermann to disclose how he feels about the kiss, but hermann dodges the question. they share a really weird moment together where newt contemplates kissing him again, but hermann leaves before he can make up his mind.


	10. Chapter 10

Of course, the show went off without a hitch.

 

The _fucking_ introduction that they'd worked on for what had felt like  ** _eons_** was smooth, and  _Reckoner_ was welcomed onstage by a packed house. They played their hearts out, as they always did. By the end of the night, Newt was shirtless and sweaty and ready to collapse on to the stage. He put his guitar into the hands of some unidentified headset douche, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. The crowd cheered and chanted, saying something he couldn't quite hear from his position. 

 

Newt remained pensive as the cheering continued, and then the same headset douche handed him the acoustic guitar.

 

Right, the encore. 

 

Newt put the guitar on, taking the button up he was offered and throwing it on ( sans buttons, thank you very much ), and walking out on to the stage.

 

Alone.

 

The thing about how stage lights are focused is that, if you stand on your mark, you can't see the audience. In fact, you're just about blind most of the time. All you can do is play your part and do the same thing you told yourself you would before you arrived at your place. Newt had never been good at encores, and as he and the singer filed back onstage, he considered backing out. The bassist knew the part as well. 

 

The G was out of tune. A few moments of nervous laughter and nervous tuning, and it was all in order.

 

Encore came and went, and everything fell into fluidity. The crowd thinned out, and Newt made himself decent enough to go down and mingle with the people that'd stuck behind. Most of them just wanted to talk about the music, or about where the band was going next--- they were all questions and conversations he'd had a dozen times before. When the venue was empty, and the smoke had settled, Newt stood at the barrier, looking up at the stage in a humbled silence.

 

The view was kind of shit.

 

In twenty-four hours, they'd be going in a caravan to a city four hours away and opening for a slightly more famous band. He couldn't remember their name, it was kind of the last thing on his mind. Newt drummed his fingers on the barrier, listening to the idle chatter between the crew as they packed up. The small world they'd built on that stage was swallowing itself whole. Newt glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Hermann. He was looking at his phone, headset around his neck as he read the glowing screen.

 

There was no impulse this time. Newt acted on conscious decision, closing the distance between them with determination and riding on an adrenaline high that refused to abide. "Hermann." He said, pointing a slightly shaking finger in the other man's face, "I need to talk to you."

 

"If you have an issue with how your set is being disassembled, you should speak to the crew working it." He said, pocketing his phone and leveling his gaze with Newt's.

 

"Not about the fucking set!" Newt's voice came out much more exasperated than he intended. He ran his hands through his mostly sweat-drenched hair and took a half step back. "Let's go outside." 

 

Having some fresh air and a few less walls around him was all Newt could ask for. That, and Hermann's undivided attention. By the grace of God, Hermann complied, and they walked to the loading dock where they'd first met. It was late enough that it'd fallen cold, and an idle breeze blew against Newt's open shirt, which flapped softly. He looked at Hermann. A long, deep breath. "Hell of a show, wasn't it?" He asked.

 

"Indeed."

 

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments, and Newt went in for the kiss. 

 

He cupped Hermann's cheek with a cautious, ginger touch. The kiss lingered, and when Newt withdrew, he could finally read the first genuine emotion on Hermann's face in a minute.

 

It looked like peace but felt like passion. 

 

A familiar gaze. Newt's thumb stroked a barely-there stubble on Hermann's chin, and they kissed again. 

 

Silence.

 

"How's that one?" Newt asked, hand sliding smoothly from Hermann's jaw to his chest, fingers tracing the pattern of a thick knight sweater-- there was no way he wasn't hot in that. "Memorable enough?"

 

Maybe it was the glare of the setting sun, but Newt swore he saw Hermann crack a smile. "Yes," he said, though his eyes carried a misplaced sadness.

 

Newt gently tugged on Hermann's sweater, pulling him closer. "Any excuses tonight?" He asked, eyes falling to Hermann's lips.

 

"I don't think so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter's technically an epilogue alright please don't come at me bc i couldn't stick to 10 chapters
> 
> anyway they finna smash so don't read chapter 11 if u ain't about that life


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's your warning for tasteful smut. don't say i didn't warn u

They were at Hermann's apartment-- not that there was much of an option in the matter, as Newt was legally homeless and lived either in hotel rooms or the back of his car ( he was in the premier of the two at the moment, but the place was shared with _Reckoner_ 's bassist, and Newt didn't need to have another tally added to the 'Times Newt Has Fucked a Techie' board ).

 

They sat on an old sofa in Hermann's living room. Newt had one arm over the back of the sofa, the other holding his almost-empty second glass of wine. Hermann was next to him, almost (  _almost_ ) leaning into Newt, a barely-touched glass of red wine in his hand. At the moment, Newt was pressing a gentle kiss to Hermann's neck.

 

"When do you leave town?"

 

If there was anything that Hermann was good at, it was killing the mood.

 

Newt didn't want to  _think_ about the fact that he was leaving the next morning. He wanted to  _think_ about the fact that he was in the same beer-stained, half-open button-up that he'd left the venue in, and Hermann hadn't taken off the fucking sweater that was practically a second skin at this point. He groaned, resting his forehead in the crook of Hermann's neck and hoping that'd pass as an answer. It didn't.

 

"Tomorrow."

 

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Hermann took a long sip of his wine. "Alright," Hermann said.

 

And that was it. "Hey," Newt said, leaning away from Hermann long enough to set the wine glass down on a squat coffee table in front of them, then leaning back into the sofa. He hooked his arm around Hermann's shoulder, pulling him closer and cupping his face, "Don't focus on that." God only knew it was the last thing he wanted on his mind. Newt gently took the wine glass from Hermann's hand, setting it down on the table next to his. "Tomorrow's ready for us when we get there." he kissed Hermann. End of conversation.

 

Hermann returned the kiss with a mild restraint. A very selfish part of Newt wanted to reprimand Hermann for  _being like this_ , but something told him that a reprimand wouldn't fix it.

 

Focus on the present. Right.

 

Newt put a hand on Hermann's thigh as they kissed, thumb gently rubbing the carefully starched material of Hermann's  _fucking_ librarian pants. Those needed to go. Newt pulled away, unbuttoning and shrugging his shirt. This was the first time that Hermann had been in such immediate proximity of Newt's shirtless chest, which was mostly dominated by the linework for an expansive chest piece. It depicted Haku, the dragon from  _Spirited Away_ , coiled up carefully on his chest and poking out onto Newt's left shoulder. Hermann marveled at the work silently, one of his hands instinctively reaching out and touching the ink. "Pretty fuckin' cool, huh?" Newt asked, voice surprisingly calm in light of the fact that the feeling of Hermann's hand on his chest was  _electric_. 

 

"Yes." Hermann replied, speaking under his breath. "It's gorgeous."

 

Newt smiled and took Hermann's hand in his, pulling it away from his chest to allow him to lean in and kiss Hermann again. "Wait until you see what's on my ass."

 

It was then that Newt undertook the noble task of getting Hermann's sweater off of him. His hands pulled off the heavy knit, dropping it behind the sofa. Revealed from underneath the sweater was a neatly buttoned white dress shirt, crinkled from being hidden under the sweater, but clearly well-cared for. Newt began to undo the top button, and Hermann's hand flew up to hold his wrist. They locked eyes. "What's going on, man?" Newt asked, letting go of the button and turning his hand to intertwine his fingers with Hermann's. It was a bizarrely intimate gesture for a one-night stand. 

 

"Newton-" He said, gaze shifty. "- Are you sure this is a good idea?"

 

Not a single day in the last ten years of his life had Newt had a good idea. "No." He said honestly.

 

"Me neither." Hermann replied, beginning to unbutton the shirt on his own. That, too, was discarded. Newt immediately shifted his position, straddling Hermann's hips and wrapping his arms around the other man's neck. 

 

"Listen, man." Newt said, resting his forehead against Hermann's, "If you're not about this, you don't have to be."

 

"No-no, I'm certainly...  _about it_." Hermann said, the vocabulary unnatural on his lips.

 

A laugh. Newt shook his head. "Alright." He replied, punctuating the sentence with a kiss.

 

Five minutes later, they were horizontal on the sofa. The pair had made no progress with stripping, but were grinding like two teenagers that'd finally gotten some time alone at a house party. Their rapport had resigned itself to soft moaning and gasps. One of Hermann's hands had its fingers buried in Newt's hair, the other  on his lower back, holding him close, as if Newt had  _any_ plans on going anywhere else any time soon. Newt had one hand at Hermann's waist, fiddling with the hem of his pants, and the other cradling Hermann's face as always. Newt couldn't help the gesture-- Hermann's expression was always so fucking cold, it looked like it just needed a little  _human element_.

 

As Newt finally made the move to take off Hermann's pants, the man in question let out a soft gasp, head falling back as he relaxed. 

 

Seeing Hermann relax was like witnessing a Christmas fucking miracle. Newt chuckled, gently running his hand over the length of Hermann's erection. "This is what it takes to get you to unwind?" he chuckled softly." Hermann open his mouth to speak, then failed to verbalize anything coherent. 

 

By the time they were both naked, they'd stumbled into Hermann's bedroom, lost in the endless entanglement of gangly limbs and disheveled hair. It was a bizarrely intimate scene, far more poetic than Newt's previous post-show sexcapades. There wasn't any grabbing or pulling hair or covered mouths or pinned wrists. There was something sincere under the guise of unbridled lust.

 

Skin slipped over skin, and as soon as it began, it ended.

 

The post-coital haze peeled away something prideful in Hermann, and something isolating in Newt. They didn't mind being lost in one another, pulling one another closer every moment, bravely vulnerable gestures existing in spite of the inevitable. Another kiss, and Newt finally cleared his throat, propping himself up on one elbow. "I've gotta go."

 

Maybe one day they'd get rid of the silence that plagued them.

 

While it was too dark to see anything for certain, the disappointment radiating from Hermann was palpable. Newt leaned down, pressing a kiss to the other man's forehead, then sat up. Only then did he feel the familiar grip of Hermann's hand around his wrist. Newt turned to see the other man looking... honestly, he looked so  _alone_. There was a unrecognizable tug in Newt's gut, and he gently pulled his wrist from Hermann's grasp, standing up and catching his reflection in a mirror, making a half-hearted attempt at fixing his hair.

 

He'd gotten what he wanted, after all.

 

He'd worn Hermann down, worn him in, and worn him out.

 

The car felt empty as Newt drove back to the hotel. 

 

It would be six years before they saw one another again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this is gonna be a series because this story is far from over
> 
> @kaijufucker666 on twitter, @destinae on tumblr.
> 
> love y'all.


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